Earl Grey
by Mlee.Write
Summary: the sequel to Emerald Green Lily


_**Earl Grey**_

_**This is rated M, but not for the reasons you want. Reviews are awesome. **_

"I'll have tea, Earl Grey, please," Lisbon said. The moment she ordered she wondered why she'd chosen that particular after-dinner beverage. She didn't like tea, she'd never had Earl Grey. That was what Jane drank in the morning. She assumed it was like the coffee of teas.

She was drunk. More than a little drunk. On her way to throwing-up-in-the-morning drunk. She had downed two martinis with Marcus before dinner, as they sat at the bar, his hand resting casually on her bare knee. Then there was the bottle of wine at dinner. It wasn't the merlot or Riesling or moscato she usually liked. It was a Malbec, deep and purple and tasting of earth and bitter things. She drank it anyway.

She didn't normally get drunk. The memories of her father's alcoholism hung in her mind, warning her that she was predisposed to self-medicate too. It would be so easy after every grisly case, every child they could not save, to drown out her sorrow in a tequila bottle. That was why she stuck to beer and wine, the occasional mixed drink, always socially, never enough to be drunk.

Except now.

She was having a good time. Marcus was telling her about his sister in St. Louis, and his two nephews who were hell on wheels. He obviously cared deeply about them. His ability to tell stories about a four and six-year-old, to recall their favorite toys and when they started speaking, spoke volumes. A lot of men she knew were oblivious to children until they had their own.

She swallowed the dregs of her wine. She wondered if it stained her lips purple.

Marcus would be a good dad, and he wanted kids. He'd been up front with her. He wanted the house and the kids and the dog. He liked dogs. If Marcus was a dog he'd be a chocolate lab, for sure.

Abbott would be a Rottweiler. Fischer some kind of high-maintenance breed, a gun dog that required constant exercise and stimulation. Or a border collie. Cho would probably be a pit bull. Scary on the outside—a big mushy puddle of love on the inside.

That thought made her giggle.

Marcus looked at her quizzically.

"Sorry," she said, covering her mouth with her hand. "I was thinking about Cho. How he's not so tough, you know?"

"He scares me," Marcus admitted with a smile.

She would be a terrier, Lisbon decided. Little and fierce and loyal. And Jane would be a mutt for sure. The kind you find at a shelter, of dubious origins, who is somehow so endearing you love it senseless even when it pees in your favorite shoes.

Her shoes were hurting her. How did women wear these things? She bent down to adjust a strap that was cutting into her skin.

Jane. She felt a little sick then, and not just from the booze. He'd looked so sad when she'd gone out with Marcus, so alone. Normally they spent downtime together, watching movies, having late dinners at greasy spoons. It was a comfortable sort of companionship. She was married to her job. He was married to his grief. They embraced their loneliness together and it kept her from becoming a cat-lady, probably.

"Do you want a dog?" she asked Marcus, out of the blue. "Or a cat?"

He seemed amused by her sudden change of topic. "Dog," he said. "Labrador retriever. For sure."

"Hmm."

She pondered. "You could name it Bullet or Copper or something."

"Nah," he replied. "I'd name it something like Daisy or Honey so I didn't have to think about work all the time."

Jane would probably name a dog Frank. Probably.

If she and Marcus got a dog, a puppy, Jane would love it. He loved babies. Baby animals. Baby people. Probably because they didn't lie, did hide things. He could give his brain a rest around the guileless.

Of course, he might not come see the puppy because he was pissed she was dating Marcus. Well, not pissed, uncomfortable. He knew she was serious, that Marcus was a really nice guy, but he was giving her space. Because it would be weird to date Marcus, and after having sex, go over by Jane to watch TMC until three a.m. It would make Marcus uncomfortable that she was that close with another man.

If she stayed with Marcus Jane would be sad and alone, and it made her sad. Because he deserved not to be alone. It would take a saint to put up with him though.

The waiter arrived, bearing chocolate mousse and earl grey tea. She tasted the mousse first. It was heaven.

She made appreciative noises. Then she sipped the tea. It was _awful._

She nearly gagged.

"You okay?" Marcus asked, his spoon halfway to his mouth.

"Wrong pipe," she choked. What the hell was in this? It tasted like rotten lawn clippings, like when Tommy would pin her face down in the leaf pile outside their house in fall, and she'd throw him off and pinch him until he screamed.

Why would Jane punish himself like this? She wondered. There was coffee, for God's sake. God made coffee so people would be happy and not kill each other in the morning. The devil made Earl Grey tea, for sure.

She swallowed enough so that it wasn't apparent she was disgusted and the finished her mousse.

Marcus paid the bill and then walked her to the door, his hand on her lower back. He expected sex, obviously. They'd already been to bed together once.

It had been good. He was a considerate lover. Strangely she was drunk then too, although not this drunk. Buzzed. She had known what was coming and she felt the need for liquid courage, which was odd.

She was no stranger to casual sex. She knew the routine. His place. The compliments as he undressed her. Stroking him for the first time and making appreciative sounds in her throat so he'd feel good about himself. No oral sex—not yet. The reaching for the condom, checking her expression to make sure didn't want more foreplay. The first moments of penetration, that sweet ache.

She'd normally faked her orgasms the first time. She was never comfortable enough with new lovers to quite get there. She hadn't needed to with Marcus. She'd had a little one, and almost as if given permission, he'd come immediately after. He'd spooned her, telling her she was beautiful, sexy. He held her even when he slept. It was all perfectly choreographed, orchestrated.

The sex held promise. It said they were compatible. But that evening, as she thought about the expected outcome of her date, she kept drinking more. Kept reaching for that glass of bitter wine.

The air was cool outside, and Marcus reached for his valet ticket. "Do you want to come over," he said low, against her ear.

"I'm…" Her mind spun, brain fuzzy. "I'm actually a little drunk. I'm sorry. It's embarrassing."

He smiled. If he was irritated he didn't show it. "It's okay. I'll drive you home."

"It's out of your way," she said. "I'll catch a cab."

It really was out of his way.

He looked concerned. "I don't mind seeing you home. I'd like to make sure you get there okay."

She gave him an amused, dry look. "I'm a federal agent. I'll be fine."

He clearly wanted to push, and clearly was conflicted about doing so. Good. She kissed his lips and grabbed the first cab to pull up. "I'll see you at work tomorrow," she said.

She left him standing awkwardly at the curb, feeling like a heel. She gave the driver her address and tried not to think.

She tried not to think that the entire time she was with Marcus, under him, sweating, biting her lip, she was trying not to moan. She was trying not come. She was trying so goddamned hard not to think of Patrick Jane sitting on his couch, blanketed in loneliness.

It wasn't fair. She deserved a personal life, a serious relationship. And if it meant they spent less time together? He couldn't expect to be a nun, could he? To spend her live sitting by him companionably, platonic? He'd never cared before, but she'd never been serious about anyone before.

The shift in their relationship had happened so fast she lost her footing.

He didn't want to be lonely and neither did she and that was the problem. Jane wanted a friend and she needed a lover, a partner. She couldn't do one-night stands and emotionless affairs forever. She was getting older. She wanted to settle down.

Jane expected her to drop everything, follow him around the country, and be his Girl Friday. It wasn't fair.

Unexpectedly she felt tears prick at the back of her eyes. It would be so easy if he wanted more. She'd wondered about that once. She wondered if his flirting would ever progress to more. She'd had a little crush on him at first, before their friendship had really been cemented. Then the crush had progressed to love. She did love Jane, very much. She would always love him and think about him and wish him well. He would always make her a little happier, a little lighter. But she need _more._

Jane didn't want her like that though and never would. It was apparent after twelve years of nothing. Every step he might have taken in that direction was followed abruptly by him backpedaling, not wanting to confuse her, to give her the wrong idea.

Even now he was being so good about Marcus. He wasn't being a dick. He was happy for her, wistful even. His compliment had melted her bones.

"Beautiful."

From him, the word meant so much more.

The hell of it was, even now, as she was wallowing in the drunken misery Jane was causing her, she wanted Jane. He'd be the one the cheer her up, to be ridiculous and caustic and affectionate in a curmudgeonly way. He'd tell her not to cry over some asshole who would never love her right.

That asshole was him.

"Shit," she said, sniffling.

The cabbie started.

"I need to go somewhere else," she said. "I'm sorry." And she gave him the address to the FBI.

Jane's airstream was alone in the parking lot. There were a few cars parked near the building, but out in the back forty it sat alone, gleaming under the sodium light. She paid the cab driver and tipped him extra for the inconvenience.

Then she stumbled into the airstream, her heels cutting her feet, feeling swollen and weepy and confused.

He was sleeping, still dressed in his suit, and he sat up immediately when she came in.

"Lisbon, you okay?" He asked, his voice rough with sleep.

She leaned against the door and tried not to cry, biting her lip hard.

"What happened?" he asked. His eyes focused on her, blinking back sleep.

"I think I'm drunk," she said dumbly. _I think I'm drunk and I need to be that way to have sex with my amazing boyfriend and it's all your fault. Because I want you like I want him and I can't have it._

"Okay," he said. He started to get up. "Do you need anything?"

She held out her hand, stopping him. "I don't want to talk about it," she said. Because then they couldn't be friends anymore.

"Okay," he replied, cautiously, like she might be a crazy person.

Before she could really think about it, she kicked off her heels and dropped her bag and crawled onto the bed by him. She wanted him then so badly. Not sexually. She wanted his touch and to lean against him and to know it was okay for a little bit. He made things okay, always. He did stupid, crazy things, but he always took care of her. He manipulated the world so she would be a little happier.

Except when he was hurting her. Then he looked sorry, but not sorry enough to do anything.

It was such a mess. Such a goddamned mess, and she couldn't think anymore.

She curled up against him, her cheek on his shoulder. He smelled good, like Irish Spring and whatever his dry cleaner used. He smelled like Jane, warm and safe and not-at-all dependable.

"I don't want to talk about it," she said again, and her throat hurt from not crying.

He was still for a moment before pulling her closer, tucking her against him. He was deliciously warm, and she curled into it. He wouldn't' judge her for this, wouldn't embarrass her. Not Jane. He probably wouldn't even ask.

_I'm so in love with you it hurts_, she thought.

When he wrapped his arm around her she pretended that it was more than a friendly gesture, that he was holding her tight because he needed to feel her body against his. When he tucked her hair behind her ear she pretended he did it out of the same love he felt for Angela, the love that binds a man and woman together always. The tenderness that lovers share.

_Kiss me? Just this one time, just so I know what it feels like? I'll never ask again._

Her words were stuck on her tongue, tasting of Malbec and bitter chocolate and bergamot.

She was a maudlin drunk, she thought. She put her hand on his chest, feeling him grow tense under her touch. Too close for him. Too much. He didn't like this, it made him think of Angela.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

He relaxed a little. "It's okay, Lisbon. Just go to sleep."

So she did.


End file.
